He Was Right

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He was right. You bleed into your verse
When you’re troubled. And you do not care
Whether it’s poetical
Or published anywhere.
When in her solitude she chose to speak
Dickinson was clever and unique.
And I attempt to put in poetry
More than just my puzzled misery.
And I want my poetry to be
Though not ineffectual like me
Put in print, as worshiped as the sea,
More than just myself, and far more free,
Not too much Junkets, but enough of art,
My shadow, and a lot of Larry Hart.

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